Suddenly My Life Doesn't Seem Such a Waste
by aforallyyyyyyx
Summary: (Prompt #1047 fill from Blangstpromptoftheday on Tumblr:) Blaine meets Kurt for the first time when he's seven and Kurt is eight and they're both at a support group for children suffering a bereavement. Kid!Klaine.
1. Chapter 1

_**Prompt #1047 fill (from Blangstpromptoftheday on Tumblr)**_

 _"Blaine meets Kurt for the first time when he's seven and Kurt is eight and they're both at a support group for children suffering a bereavement."_

 **Suddenly My Life Doesn't Seem Such a Waste**

Blaine was among many children that didn't really get the feeling of pain. The way it would completely cripple some people, and how it would just not matter to others; it was all foreign territory.

Take his mother, for example. Some days, she would seem approachable, while others, she would stare into his eyes and ask him to play with his army men in his room, locked away, instead of on the living room floor. His dad would take her arm, say "It's quite alright, darling," and lead her away. That way, no one was sitting in the living room, anymore. It was just a waste of space.

Blaine wondered sometimes if he was like the living room, too. Empty inside. He felt dirty. A seven year old should have a bath every other day, he knew, but he never seemed to be reminded of that, anymore. The first six or so weeks had been confusing, where he remembered his parents focused more on sorting things than making sure he was clean.

 _Blaine's dad spoke. "What are you doing, Pam?"_

 _Pam held a flashlight in one hand, so it shined directly on the cardboard box in front of her, which was crudely knifed open._

 _"What does it looks like?"_

 _"OK."_

Blaine had stood on the stairs to the attic, which was nearest to the bathroom on the third floor of their house. He was carrying a towel and his favorite rubber ducky, frowning at his parents, who were upstairs having an argument.

 _His dad's silhouette, with the downstairs light behind him, had an uncomfortable shape, as if he is tensed, or angry. Menacing. Why? His mother talks in a hurry._

 _"I'm sorting all this stuff. Josh, you know we have to do something, don't we? About his- About-" Blaine hears his mother swallow, and woefully wished that she didn't cry. Not again._

 _"We have to sort Cooper's old toys and clothes. I know you don't want to, but we have to decide. His old stuff is just filling us up, do we do something else?"_

 _"Get rid of it?"_

 _"Yes ... Maybe."_

 _Blaine frowned again, his seven year old body beginning to feel something other than confusion. He was catching on._

 _"OK. OK. Ah, I don't know."_

 _Silence. And the ceaseless rain on the roof. Blaine watched the droplets roll down on the window in the hall._

 _"Josh?"_

 _"Look, I've got to go.' He is backing away, and heading for the stairs. 'Let's talk about it later, I will call you from San Diego."_

 _"Josh!"_

 _"Booked on the next flight, but I'll miss that one too, if I'm not careful. Probably have to overnight in Denver, now." His voice is getting closer as he clambers down the stairs, well, more like a ladder. He is leaving- and his exit feels guilty._

 _"Wait!" Blaine's mother cries._

 _He turns, checking his wristwatch as he does._

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"Did you…Josh. Did you open the box of Cooper's old toys?"_

 _He paused._

Blaine remembered the time that his dad had come downstairs with a set of action figures that seemed new to him. He had said "here you go, squirt" and played with the old models of Thor and Hulk with him. It was, perhaps, the only time.

 _"Sure," his dad replied._

 _"Why, Josh? Why on earth would you do that?"_

 _"Because Blaine was bored with his toys."_

 _"So, Josh, you went into the loft and got one out? One of Cooper's old toys? Just like that?"_

 _"Yes. So? Hm? What's the problem, Pam? Did I cross into enemy territory?" Blaine got nervous as his father went on- those toys were Cooper's? Blaine felt sick. "Blaine was bored and unhappy. Saying he missed Cooper. You were out, Pam. Coffee with Rose. Right? So I thought, why not get him some of Cooper's old toys. Mm? That will console him. And deal with his boredom. So that's what I did. OK? Is that OK?"_

 _His sarcasm is heavy. And bitter._

 _"But-"_

 _"What would you have done? Said no? Told him to shut up and play with his own toys? Told him to forget that his brother existed?'_

 _And as Josh descended the stairs, he found Blaine, now his only son, clutching the towel and rubber duck with fervor. Blaine was crying, for the first time._

And that was how Blaine's parents decided to take him here- to Emma Pillsbury's office in Lima, Ohio. Josh had spent hours on the phone with many counselors, who all had schedules filled to the brim in Westerville. Apparently, the whole of America needed grief counseling. The Andersons had only one option then- driving an hour to Lima every Tuesday at 4:30 PM.

They had many arguments about it, about how Blaine didn't _need_ counseling- he was just about the happiest seven year old in all of Ohio, who just happened to make the dark cloud hanging over him transparent at all times. But in the end, they compromised. Blaine didn't have many friends, and so he was made to attend Ms. Pillsbury's Boys' Bereavement Group. And the drive from Westerville to Lima was a bonus; no one would see that Pam was appointed to spend time with Emma individually. Blaine didn't understand why that was such a big deal. He just needed to understand where Cooper went, and why he wasn't ever coming back. Why he didn't want to live anymore.

He told the group just about that. The parents weren't allowed in the room, and so Blaine assumed automatically that he could say what he was really feeling.

"I miss my brother," said Blaine in one of the sessions, quietly, "Even when he was mean, sometimes, he still made me feel important."

His parents didn't. They just dragged him along. Coop had been seventeen, about to go into his last year at high school. In the end, Blaine watched his brother get more and more mean, and would always tear him down, but Blaine found that insults were more satisfying than no attention at all.

A few of the other boys didn't share his same ideals.

"My nana was the bestest person in the world," An eight year old named Jeff exclaimed, "She wasn't ever mean to me."

"But don't you think that that shouldn't matter?" said Blaine, "We should remember everyone as how they were, not how you wanted them to be."

"An interesting thought, Blaine," Ms. Pillsbury interrupted, "Would you like to elaborate?"

Blaine didn't know what 'elaborate' meant, but she was giving him a motion to speak. He carefully nodded.

"Well, Coop wasn't always nice. He never let me come into his room," Blaine explained, "When he would throw parties in mine, sometimes. Mommy and daddy never did anything about it."

"Did that make you feel frustrated?"

"Yes," Blaine said, "But it doesn't mean that I'm allowed to be. Coop's gone, now."

"Oh, Blaine, you are certainly allowed to be frustrated." Ms. Pillsbury frowned, "What put that into your head?"

"I miss my dad," Seven year old Nick said, "And he was good to me. I don't get why you're saying all these things."

Blaine narrowed his eyes at the newer addition, who had joined the group not but two weeks ago. Ms. Pillsbury was grappling for control, as the boys began to whisper and talk within themselves.

"I think we need some understanding on how to-" Ms. Bowers stopped as she saw Blaine leave the room, the vanilla door slamming behind him.

More whisperings.

* * *

It could be any strip mall in Lima. Low-rise and compact, with a smallish storefronts with dully painted windows and doors, and inside, lots of parents looking sleepy, careworn and guiltily relieved as they drop off the little ones. It's just the setting that marks it out: depression. And then, of course, there is the screwed-in sign on the fifth unit. _All Visitors Must Report To Reception._

Kurt held his father's hand, tightly, as they walked from their car between two sleeker city cars, and three dirty Land Rovers, and in approach of the glass doors. Other mothers and fathers are greeting each other, in the lobby, personably, and affably, in that enviable, relaxed, chit-chatty, small-talking way that Kurt's father never quite mastered, and will find even harder here, amongst strangers, the child reckoned.

Kurt was as silent as his dad. Nervous and tense. He was in his blue-and-red Dalton primary uniform under his quilted black jacket. They were in such a rush.

Burt Hummel drove them there from Kurt's school, as Kurt sat in the backseat- fidgeting with his toy, and singing a new made-up song to himself.

And now it is too late: Kurt's hair looks messy from school.

Burt's protective instinct reaches out. He desperately does not want him to be laughed at. He will already be dauntingly lonely in this group, well into their amounted meetings of weeks he's missed. And the confusion about Kurt's denial is still there: lurking. Sometimes, he calls his dad 'mom and dad' not just 'daddy'. Sometimes  
he tells stories about his mom still being alive. He did it this morning.

To Burt, it is bewildering and painful, which is why hasn't addressed it before now. He merely hoped that Ms. Emma Pillsbury is right, and this group will somehow resolve it all- new friends and talking about how to get over this.

So here we are.

They loiter at the door as a blonde woman gives them a smile of reassurance, and holds open the glazed door.

"Burt Hummel?"

"Yes, er?"

"Checked you on LinkedIn. Just curious to know who the new parents might be." She tilted an indulgent expression at Kurt. "And this must be Kurt. Kurt Hummel?" She ushers them in. "You look just like your photos! I'm Sue Sylvester. Great to have a new boy in the group. Please just call me Sue." She looked back at Burt. "I'm the secretary."

Burt nodded casually, still a bit tense. He turned around for his son, who wasn't where- that's funny.

Kurt had found a little boy who was sitting in the drab lobby, most likely waiting for his parents to pick him up. The smaller boy was small, very small, with tastefully moussed black, curly hair, dark amber eyes, and a similar uniform to Kurt's on. He was apparently a student at Dalton Primary, too.

"Can I ask you a question? I'm new here. Why're you so sad?"

"My name's Blaine," was the quietly offered response. Burt smiled- maybe his son would be okay with this group thing. It was only a matter of time.

 _fin._


	2. Chapter 2

Blaine sits, slightly red-eyed, but calm, in the backseat on the way back from Lima. Pam doesn't ask him anything as she pulls into a different parking lot, different, but all the same when referring to the casual strip mall in Ohio. His dark hair carefully curls in the summer wind as Pam takes his hand and leads him out of the _GMC_ Denali, which involved gripping both of his shoulders to lift him out of the giant SUV.

Pam can't tell herself why she and Josh had bought the car in the first place. They had two children, and a medium sized dog named Leonardo DiCaprio (Jr.), which her eldest had named at age ten. After seven years, the dog still came everywhere with them, but was conspicuously absent today. Pam seldom wondered if Leo was depressed, too. Perhaps the extra large SUV came when Josh and her decided to raise their first child in the suburbs, where the mid-eighties were at its height and the thought of a big brick house in the Midwestern suburbs was actually appealing. Pam was sick of it. She longed for travel.

She stared at her youngest son out of the corner of her eyes. Her remaining son. He's small and handsome, his retrossè profile framing something much more boring than his appearance. Josh and Pam had been overjoyed when their mistake turned into such a pretty baby.

But at the same time, Pam looked at him with pangs of pain that crippled her aging heart. Maybe, if this son hadn't been born, they'd still have the other one. Part of her, the darker side, sings at the idea. When Cooper had been a child, he would dance in front of his mother for hours and hours, pulling the most wonderful facial expressions, and making Pam believe that her son was going to go somewhere. Make it big in Hollywood, or Broadway. He was always bouncing around, much less patient than Blaine, who as a kid would sit in silence with his toys on the floor (Cooper's?), and read books. The idea that ghosted the forefront of Pam's mind was almost too good to be true.

 _What was she saying?_

Pam settled down as a slightly cheered up Blaine licked his ice cream cone slowly, yet he paid much attention, as if it would disappear if he didn't savor the moment while it lasted. Maybe, Pam thought, that she should start savoring the memories, too.

* * *

Burt gripped the steering wheel carefully, listening to his son gush on and on in the backseat of the old Saab. The muffler would probably need to be replaced, soon, he realized, because he could barely hear Kurt's lilted voice.

Kurt asks in the tense Mellencamp-driven atmosphere, "Why's bologna called bologna, Daddy? Shouldn't it be bologna- that's how it's spelt."

This is good. A normal conversation.

"I don't know, son," said Burt- why out of all normal conversations, his son had to pick the most obscure one there is..- "I guess it's the Americanized-version of how the Italians say it."

"And how do the Italians say it?"

The questions never end, and sometimes, Burt wonders if he has to answer them all.

* * *

The next Tuesday, at 4:00, both families arrived in the strip mall parking lot at relatively similar times. That day, however, it was just Pam bringing her son around to Ms. Pillsbury's Boys' Bereavement Group. After ice cream the previous week, Blaine was more interested in what would happen after the meeting than during or before.

And as for Kurt, he was just trying not to think all that hard about it. His father wanted him to come, and so there he was.  
The boys found each others' eyes from across the lobby. Kurt and Blaine never saw each other at school, and Kurt wondered why that was.

"You said you go to my school," accused Kurt as he came closer to the other boy, whose mother bade him no attention, "I didn't see you anywhere."

This time, Blaine wasn't in uniform, which last week, consisted of a dark, smart blue blazer with red piping, a red and blue tie, and a white button undershirt. There was a stitched 'D' on the front pocket in elaborate, neat font, and gray trousers with brown loafers. Kurt wore this that day, but Blaine himself was dressed neatly in a sweater vest and dark pants, with no socks, but shoes similar to the Dalton Primary uniform.

"I haven't started yet," said Blaine, "Mommy says I'm not starting until next week." He looked around aimlessly for Pam, who was off chatting with the weird blonde secretary, Sue.

"Oh," Kurt relented, "You just wanted to wear the clothes."

Blaine smiled, "Guilty as charged."

The two boys' conversation slacked off into silence until Kurt blurted, "You know a lot of big words."

* * *

In group about fifteen minutes later, Blaine started off by saying, "One of my favourite memories of Cooper was when he bought a dictionary once to just throw it at the wall. He just threw it. At the wall." There were some giggles from the boys, particularly Kurt, who willingly sat next to him as soon as they walked in.

"Did he dislike reading, Blaine?" Miss Pillsbury's dynamic today was easy and nonjudgmental. Blaine knew her tone was gentle.

"Uh huh. He never read to me, because he wanted me to learn by myself. I like that he did, because…because, now I know how to read."

"My daddy taught me how to read," Nick piped up, "Can we read a book instead of drawing today, Miss Pillsbury?"

"Yeah, I don't _like_ drawing!" complained seven year old Jeff. "It makes me feel like a girl."

Kurt gave a huff of annoyance, "You're silly. If you were better at it, you'd like it more!"

Once again, the group began to feel like it was falling apart. Miss Pillsbury found this incredibly frustrating, and gripped her clipboard with a tighter hold than she felt like she had on this group of little boys. _Little boys!_

"OK," said Miss Pillsbury, avoiding what very well could have been World War III, "OK. Let's talk about reading some more. I don't think we'll have time for an activity today, so Jeff doesn't have to worry."

What was meant to be a joke turned into anxiety when Jeff high-fived Nick. Did they really not like her activities?

"Um," Emma fumbled, "Do you have anything to add, Sebastian?"

When perhaps the most distraught boy in the room lifted his head, Emma knew that she was in hot water. Sebastian was notoriously mentioned in Emma's notes for his temper and his story, which was a tragic one. Not that every other boy had a right to be there, but Emma just knew that she may have gone one step too far. Asking Sebastian to speak up in group was probably a mistake.

Nick, Jeff, and Blaine exchanged a few glances with each other. Kurt was confused, because it was only his third meeting, and well, who was this Sebastian kid, anyway? He couldn't have been more than eight, but no younger than Blaine or Nick or Jeff. His green eyes were dull, and because they were so (well, not attentive) they weren't anything special. His hair was well-taken care of, so there was that. Kurt found nice dark brown pigments between Sebastian's chocolate and sandy blonde roots. Not too blonde, though.

"I'm Barry," Sebastian finally spoke, "Not Sebastian. Sebastian. Is. Dead. Dead. It was Sebastian that died. I'm _Barry_."

* * *

Christopher Smythe was a worn out man.

What stared at him now, but the face of defeat? What gazed down on him, except God, who either was too drunk like him to care at all that he made another mistake. That mistake, Christopher decided, was too good to be true, and started theorizing that God took away one of the twins because only one of them was supposed to be born. And he supposed God screwed up once more, because he left the more insolent, tantrum-throwing, and behavioral child on Earth, and took away the kinder one.

Barry had been _perfect_. Little Bartholomew and Sebastian (marrying one of the richest women in Paris had its drawbacks, including naming his children ridiculous names that belonged in a Charlie Chaplin film) had been born identical, and came in a package deal. You take what you give, including the fact that Barry was the sweetest, kindest child Christopher ever had the pleasure of meeting. And the fact that his more reserved brother, Sebastian, quickly acted out in response to his co-twin's death only made things more complicated for him.

Christopher Smythe was _tired_. He was _tired_ of the judgmental looks, _tired_ of the glares he received from liberals who knew his story. Like there weren't hundreds of them every day- hundreds who shouldn't be dead because of the very thing that protected him from whatever's out there. Barry shouldn't be dead, and Christopher blamed God. Sure, he felt the scorn of a hundred children, a hundred parents, but _you take what you give_.

Christopher stood inside Dalton Primary School, the principal standing in front of him. He didn't know if Mr. Schuester knew who he was, yet, or if he cared. If he would judge his son for what happened to their family.

Mr. Schuester waited for Christopher to talk again, like he had been for awhile. But Christopher found his mouth dry. He cannot, because Sebastian, his son, is speaking.

"I'm not Sebastian."

Mr. Schuester smiled; he must think this is a joke. A game. A child hiding behind the sofa, holding up a puppet.

"You're Sebastian Smythe! We've seen your photos! You are going to love this school, we teach—"

"I'm NOT Sebastian, I'm Barry."

"Uh—"

"Bastian' is dead. I'm Barry."

"Bastian?…?" The man trails off, and looks to Christopher, understandably confused. Christopher's son then repeated himself. Loudly. "Barry. I am Barry. Barry!"

The hallway of the school is silent apart from Sebastian, shouting these lunatic words. William Schuester's smile has faded very quickly. He glanced at Christopher, who was the picture of a haggard father, with a panicked frown. There were lots of happy children's drawings drawn over poetry printed on paper tacked to the wall. The school principal tried just one more time.

"Ah...um...Sebas—"

Christopher's son snapped at Will Schuester as if he were stupid. "Barry! You have to call me Barry! _Barry_! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! BARRY!"

The man stood his ground, but Sebastian grew quite out of control. He was giving them a full-on toddler's supermarket tantrum- except that they were in a school, and he is seven, and he is claiming that he is his dead brother.

"Dead, 'Bastian's dead. I'M BARRY! I am Barry! He is here! Barry!"

 _What do I do?_ Christopher thought, and he tried to make normal conversation, absurdly, "Um, it's just a thing, a thing – I'll be back to pick him up at-"

But Christopher's efforts are lost as Sebastian screamed again, " _BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY_ , Sebastian is _DEAD_ and I _HATE_ him I'm Barry!"

"Please," Christopher said. To Sebastian. Abandoning his pretence. "Please, son, please?"

"SEBASTIAN IS DEAD. Sebastian is dead, they killed him, they killed him. I am BAR-THOOOOO-LOOOOO-MEEEWWWW!"

And then as quickly as it started, it blew itself out. Sebastian shook his head, stomped over to the far wall, and sat down in a little chair, under a photo of school kids working in the garden, with a cheery inscription in felt-tip pen. _He who plants a tree plants hope._

Sebastian sniffed, then said, very quietly, "Please call me Barry. Why can't you call me Barry, daddy, that's who I am? Please?" His teary green eyes lifted. "I'm not going to school, 'less you call me Barry, please. Daddy?'

Christopher felt paralyzed. His pleading sounded painfully sincere. He truly felt like he had no choice. The silence prolonged into agony. _Because now, I've got to explain everything to this Schuester guy at the worst possible moment; and to do that I need Sebastian out of here. I need him in this school,_ he thought.

"OK, OK. Mmm-" Christopher said, unable to think properly. "Mr. Schuester. This is Barry. Barry Smythe." Christopher became frightened, and started to mumble. "I'm actually enrolling Bartholomew Christopher Smythe."

There was a long pause. William Schuester looked at Christopher, with intense confusion.

"Pardon me? Barry? But …" The teacher became a bright red, flustered. Then, he reached to a desk, behind a open, sliding window, and took out a sheet of paper. His next words were more of a whisper. "But it says here, quite clearly, that you are enrolling Sebastian Smythe? That was on the application. Sebastian. Definitely. Sebastian Smythe?"

Christopher breathed in deeply. He started to speak, but Sebastian got there first, as if he overheard.

"I'm Barry," said Sebastian. "Sebastian is dead, then he was alive, but then he is dead again. I am Barry."

William Schuester, once more, says nothing. Christopher started to feel too dizzy to respond, teetering on the edge of dark absurdity.

But with an effort, he spoke, "Can we let Bartholomew join his new class and I can explain?"

There was another desperate silence, Christopher's face pleading for the other man to understand. Then, he heard children singing a song down a corridor, raucous and happy.

 _"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to FLY-"_

The incongruity made Sebastian's father nauseous.

William Schuester shook his head, then edging closer to Christopher as he said, "Yes ... That seems sensible."

The school principal turned to a good-looking young woman, in a pencil skirt, pressing through the glass doors from the cold outside.

"Ms. Corcoran, Shelby, please–do you mind– can you take, ahh, Barry Smythe to his new class, Year Two, end of the corridor. Madelyn Stewart."

 _"FLY, blackbird, FLY- "_

Shelby nodded an amiable Yes and squatted down, next to Sebastian, like an overkeen waitress taking an order, "Hey, Barry. D'you want to come with me?"

 _"Into the light of the dark black night…blackbird singing in the dead of night…"_

"I'm Barry.' Sebastian was fiercely folding his arms. Scowling. Bottom lip jutting. As stubborn a face as he can manage, "You must call me Barry."

"Sure. Of course. Barry! You'll like it, they're doing music this morning."

 _"FLY, blackbird, FLY…"_

At last, it worked. Slowly, he unfolded his arms and he takes her hand- and he followed Shelby toward another glass door. He looks so small, and the door looks so huge and daunting, devouring…Christopher couldn't help but wish his wife wasn't in Paris right now, coping by herself. The twins had been in his custody when Barry had died.

For one moment Sebastian paused, and turned to give Christopher a sad, frightened smile- and then Shelby escorted him into the corridor- he became swallowed up by the school. Christopher must leave him to his lonely fate; so he turned to William Schuester.

"I have to explain."

Schuester nodded, sombrely. "Yes please. In my office. We can be alone there."

Fifty minutes later, and Christopher has given William Schuester the basic, yet appalling details of their story. The accident, the death, the confusion of identity, all over fourteen months. He looked suitably and honestly horrified, and also sympathetic, but Christopher could also detect a hint of sly delight in his eyes, as he listened to the narrative. Christopher was certainly livening up another dull school day. This is something he can tell his wife and his work friends today- _you won't believe who came in today, a father whose son doesn't know his own identity…_

"That's a remarkable story," said Schuester. "I'm so so sorry."

He took his glasses off and puts them on again. "It is amazing that there is, ah, no way...of really…"

"Knowing? Proving?"

"Well, yes."

"All I know is that – I mean, I _think_ – If he wants to be Barry for now maybe we have to go with it. For now. Do you mind?"

"Well no, of course. If that's what you prefer. And that's fine in terms of enrollment. They are…"

Schuester searched for the words. "Well, they were the same age, so – yes – I'll just have Shelby update the records, but don't worry about that."

Christopher got up to leave, eventually, quite desperate to escape.

"So sorry, Mr. Smythe. But I'm sure everything will be all right now, Sebastian – I mean – your son. Barry. He will love it here. Really."

Christopher finally fled.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! I originally only meant for this to be a one-shot, but after thinking about it again, I realized that this idea was something I should hold onto and keep developing. Stay tuned (or glued to your screen) for further updates!**

 **-AforAllyyyyyyx (Ally) :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

 **(The Andersons)**

Holding the book a little higher, Blaine said, "But actually the chapter is only three more pages. Did you know that?"

"Is it really?"

"Yes, look it actually ends here, Mommy."

"OK then, we can read three more pages to the end of the chapter. Why don't you read them to me?"

Blaine nodded, and turned to his book; he began to read aloud.

"What would I get if I added asp ... as ... pho …"

Leaning closer, Pam pointed out the word and began to help. "Aspho—"

"No, Mommy." He laughed, softly. "No. I know it. I can say it!"

"OK."

Blaine closed his eyes, which is what he did when he really thought hard, and then he opened his eyes again, and read: "If I added asphodel to an infusion of wormwood."

He got it. Quite a difficult word. But Pam was not surprised. There has been a rapid improvement in his reading, just recently. Which means…?

Pam drove the thought away. She should stop thinking like Miss Pillsbury- overanalyzing her son's behavior like he's some test subject in an experiment.

Apart from Blaine's reading, the room was quiet. Pam presumed Josh was downstairs in the distant kitchen; perhaps opening a bottle of wine, to celebrate their son getting into one of the best private schools in the country. And why not? There have been too many bad days, with bad news, for fourteen months.

"They climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later…"

While Blaine read, Pam hugged his little shoulders, kissing his soft dark hair. As she did, Pam felt something small and jagged beneath her, digging into her thigh. Trying not to disturb Blaine's reading, trying not to think about what he said, she reached under.

It was a small toy: a miniature plastic figure of Iron Man they bought at Six Flags Ohio. But they bought it for Cooper in 1993.

He especially liked comic books and action movies, all the Superman and Flash stuff; Blaine was – is – keener on lions and leopards, fluffier, bouncy, cuter, mammalian stuffed things. It was one of the things that differentiated them as small children.

"But he seemed to really hate me."

Pam examined the Iron Man figure, turning it in her hand. Why is it here, lying on the floor? Josh and Pam carefully boxed all of Cooper's old collectable desk figurines in the months after it happened. They couldn't bear to throw them away; that was too final, too primitive. So they put everything – toys and clothes, everything related exclusively to Cooper – in the attic: psychologically buried in the space above them.

"And did Hagrid know something about Snape that he didn't want to tell Harry?"

Cooper adored this Iron Man toy as a child. Pam remembered the afternoon they bought it; she remembered seven year old Cooper skipping down the lane at the theme park, waving the superhero in the air, dreaming to be his own superhero, making the family all smile. The memory suffused Pam with sadness, and she discreetly slipped the Iron Man figurine in the pocket of her jeans to calm herself, listening to Blaine for a few more minutes, until the chapter is finished. He reluctantly closed the book and looked up at Pam: innocent, expectant.

"OK, darling. Definitely time for bed."

"Mommy?"

Just as Pam was about to leave the room, her son sat up stiffly, eyes feverishly drowsy. Pam knew he was very close to falling asleep.

"Yes?"

"Did Cooper kill himself?"

* * *

 **(The Smythes)**

"But, Daddy."

"But, Daddy nothing. Come on, Sebastian."

A pause. It's the first time Christopher has used his son's name since he said what he said. Sebastian looks at him, puzzled, and frowning. Is he going to use those terrible words again? Throw another tantrum?

 _I'm Barry. Not Sebastian. Sebastian. Is. Dead. Dead. It was Sebastian that died. I'm Barry._

Christopher's son shakes his head, as if Christopher himself was making a very basic mistake.

Then, Sebastian says, "OK, we're going to bed."

We?

 _We?_

What does he mean by 'we'? The silent, creeping anxiety sidles up behind Christopher, but he refused to be worried. He was worried. But he was worried about nothing.

 _We?_

"OK. Goodnight, slugger."

This will all be gone tomorrow. Definitely. Sebastian just needs to go to sleep and to wake up in the morning, and then this unpleasant confusion will have disappeared, with his dreams.

"It's OK, Daddy. We can put our own 'jamas on, actually."

Christopher smiled, keeping his words neutral. If he acknowledged this confusion, it might make things worse.

"All right then, but we need to be quick. It's really late now, and you've got a school day tomorrow."

Sebastian nodded, sombrely. Looking at his father.

School.

 _School._

Another source of grief.

* * *

 **(The Hummels)**

He has stopped saying 'mommy and daddy'. The silly but disturbing confusion had passed? Kurt climbed into bed and lay his face on the pillow, and as he did he looked very small.

Like a toddler again.

Kurt's eyes fluttered, and he clutched a blanket to his chest. Burt leaned to check the nightlight.

Just as he has done, almost every evening, for six years.

From the beginning, Kurt was horribly scared of total darkness: it terrified him. And Burt didn't know why, but he always kept the nightlight in his son's room for that exact reasons.

For that reason, Elizabeth and him had always been religiously careful to keep some light available to Kurt. They tried having lamps and nightlights to hand.

Of course, Burt wondered if, in time, this phobia will dwindle – now that Kurt was older, and now eight years old. But for the moment, it persisted. Like an illness that should have gone away.

The nightlight was fine.

Burt set it down on the side table, and turned to leave when Kurt snapped his eyes open, and stared at his father. Accusingly. Angrily? No. Not angry. But unsettled.

"What?" Burt asked. "What is it? Kurt, you gotta go to sleep, bud."

"But, Daddy."

"What is it?"

"Ollie!"

The cat. Oliver. Their orange tabby. Kurt loved that cat.

"Will Ollie be coming to the new house with us?"

"Bud, don't be silly. Of course!" Burt said. "We wouldn't leave him behind! Of course he's coming!"

Kurt nodded, placated. And then, his eyes closed and he gripped the blanket tight; and Burt can't resist kissing him again. He did this all the time now: more than he ever did before. Elizabeth used to be the tactile parent, the hugger and kisser, whereas Burt was the organizer, the practical father: loving them by feeding him, and clothing him. But now he kisses his living son goodnight as if it is some fervent, superstitious charm: a way of averting further harm.

He wished Elizabeth were there to tuck him in, too.

* * *

 **(The Andersons)**

It takes an hour for Pam to calm Blaine all over again, to pacify him enough so that he finally goes to sleep – clutching his teddy bear so tight, it's as if he was actively trying to strangle it. But then, Pam was unable to sleep. For six dusty hours, next to a snoring Josh, Pam lay there, eyes bright and fierce and upset, and she turned over Blaine's words in her mind.

 _Did Cooper kill himself?_

What must that be like, to have your teenage older brother mysteriously disappear one day, only to be told that he died in a car crash? Cooper didn't actually die in a car crash, but seven year olds were easy to fool. So where on earth did Blaine get that information, that Pam and Josh were lying to him? Where did Blaine even contract the idea of suicide in the first place? Who told him how Cooper achieved his attempt?

At seven a.m., Pam rose, urgent and desperate, from the tousled bed. Of course, Josh was all questions as he ambled sleepily into the mudroom; as Pam put the phone down. _Why are you phoning Emma? Where are you going so early? What is going on?_

Yawn.

Words stopped in Pam's mouth even as she tried to reply. She didn't want to tell him the truth, not yet; not unless she had to, it's too bizarre and frightening – she'd much rather lie. Maybe she should have done more lying in the past. Maybe she should have lied about that affair, all those years ago; perhaps the damage was done, by her, to their marriage, and they never quite recovered. But she did not have time for guilt: and so she explained that she had to leave early, to drive to Lima, to research an article, because she had a commission from Rose, and she needed the work because she wanted a European vacation. She told him Blaine had another nightmare, so he needed a lot of comfort while she's gone.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

The lies are feeble; yet he seems to accept it.

Then, scratching the sleep from her eyes, Pam steered around Westerville to New Albany and drove madly west to Lima – from I-90 to the backroads to the center of the city, calling in a favour from Sue as she went. Sue was the secretary to one of Ohio's best child psychiatrists. Miss Pillsbury. Now, Pam demanded her help.

"Can you get me an appointment? Right now?"

" _What?_ "

"Ms. Syvlester. Please." Pam gazed at the haunted bleakness of western Ohio farmland, simultaneously steering, and phoning. Pam didn't think there were any police around to arrest her for careless driving. Brazen fields shined dirty gold in the occasional breaks of sun.

"Please, Ms. Syvlester. I need this."

"Well. Yes ... yes, I suppose I could try. Emma could call you back in a decade. But, um, Mrs. Anderson – are you sure you're OK?"

"Yes?"

"Pam – it's just – you know—"

"Sue!"

Like a friend – Sue Syvlester got the message, and she stopped asking questions, despite the rudeness Pam addressed her with. Usually, Sue would bite back with insults and quips, but she hung up to do Pam's bidding. And sure enough: Emma's office called Pam as she drove: Ms. Pillsbury agreed to see Pam with four hours' notice

 _Thank you, Sue Syvlester._

And now, here Pam was in Pillsbury's office on George Street. The psychiatrist, Dr Emma Pillsbury, sat on a leather swivel chair behind her slim metal desk, a much different image that she gave off instead of looking like a group leader on Tuesday afternoons. Her hands were pressed exactly flat together, as if in the most pious prayer; her twinned fingertips are poised to his chin.

She asked, for the second time. "Do you honestly believe that you might have made a mistake? Telling Blaine a lie instead of the truth?"

"I don't know. No. Yes. I don't know."

Silence resumed.

"OK, let's go over the facts again."

And so she went over the facts, again. The facts of the matter; the case in hand; the death of Pam's son; the possible breakdown of her surviving child.

Pam listened to Emma's recitation, but really she was staring at those dark swirling clouds outside, beyond the square windows with the sooty granite sills.

 _Lima_. This was such a Satanic city in the winter – poor and dour, exultantly forbidding. Why did she come here?

Ms. Pillsbury had more questions of her own.

"How much of this have you discussed with your husband, Mrs. Anderson?"

"Not so much."

"Why not?"

"Just that – we agreed to tell him about a car crash, but Josh thought he was old enough to handle the truth. I didn't want to start an argument, things are already bad with us as it is."

Again, the doubts assailed Pam: _what am I doing here? What is the point?_ Emma Pillsbury was easily only a few years younger than her, yet wore clothing which make her seem unconvincing. She has annoyingly effete pamphlets, a silly roll-neck blouse, and big eyes that say _ooh. What does this woman know about my son that I don't?_ What can she tell Pam that she can't tell herself?

* * *

 **Christopher**

Earlier this morning, the Smythe patriarch also had similar thoughts of Ms. Pillsbury.

Emma gazed at Christopher, from behind big eyes, and said, "…Mr. Smythe. Maybe it's time to move on from what we know, to what we don't know, or can't know."

"All right."

"First things first." She sat forward. "Following your email last night, I have done some research of my own, and I have consulted with colleagues. And I'm afraid there is, as I suspected, no reliable way of differentiating between monozygotic twins, especially in your pretty unique circumstances."

Christopher gazed back at her. "DNA?"

"No. Afraid not. Even if we had," Emma winced as she spoke the next words, "A large enough sample from your deceased son, standard DNA tests could almost certainly not discern any difference. Identical twins are just that: identical – genetically identical as well as facially and physically identical. This is actually a problem for police forces; there have been cases where two twins have escaped conviction for crimes because the police are unable to identify which particular twin did the deed, even when they have DNA samples from the crime scene."

"What about fingerprints, aren't they different?"

"Yes, there is sometimes a slight difference there, in fingerprints and footprints, even in identicals, but of course, Barry, ah ... there was a cremation, wasn't there?"

"Yes."

"And neither boy was fingerprinted before."

"No."

"You see the difficulty."

Ms. Pillsbury sighed with unexpected vigor. Then, she stood, and walked to the window and gazed at the less than ideal view of the strip mall parking lot.

* * *

 **Pam**

With nothing else to say, Ms. Pillsbury escorted Pam to the door, and handed her her raincoat, like a doorman at a classy hotel; then she said, much more conversationally:

"Blaine is enrolled at a new school?"

"Yes. He starts next week. We wanted time to adjust. You know …"

'That's good. That's good. School is an important part of normalization: after a few weeks there, he will, I hope, and believe, begin to make new friends, and this will pass." Emma offered Pam a wan but apparently sincere smile. "I know it must be cruel for you. Almost intolerable."

Emma paused for a moment, and her eyes met Pam's. "How are you doing? You haven't talked about yourself? You have been through an incredibly traumatic year."

"Me?"

"Yes. You."

The question stumps Pam. She gazed at Pillsbury's face, her mild and professional smile.

"I'm doing all right, I think. I just want all this to be over."

Emma nodded once more. Pensive behind her big eyes.

"Please come again. Good afternoon, Mrs Anderson."

And that was that. The door to her office shut behind Pam, and she took the new concrete sidewalk, stepping out onto the damp streets of the small downtown of Lima, wet in the autumn rain, not yet cold enough for snow.

Streetlights made misty halos in the freezing rain, the cold pavements are almost empty. There was just one woman in black fighting an umbrella in the wind. And it was Pam.

The Holiday Inn Express was just around the corner. Pam stayed in the hotel all evening, getting a takeaway pasta dish from a restaurant called Breadstix delivered, eating it on her over-firm hotel bed with a plastic spoon, straight out of the plastic trays, gazing apathetically at the TV. Trying not to think about Blaine. Pam watched nature programs and cookery programs until her mind was numb with the pointlessness. She felt nothing. No grief, no angst, just quietness. Maybe the storm is past. Maybe this is it. Maybe life can go on.

Pam's early breakfast was as plastic as dinner; she was glad to get in the car and head east for Westerville. And as the manilla strip malls surrender to the greener fields, then golden grain, then proper McMansions, Pam's mood elevated.

Surely Ms. Pillsbury was right: she was a state renowned child psychiatrist. Who was Pam to argue? She wanted to hug Blaine for an hour when she got home. Then, begin their lives again.

* * *

 **Bit of a filler here, but fortunately, I have another chapter written that I believe you're going to love! Not sure when I'll upload it, but it'll be up shortly.**

 **~AforAllyyyyyyx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Some graphic mentions of suicide in this chapter- just a warning, as well as general yelling and mature swearing.**  
 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Josh gazed at his wife. At least they weren't drinking white wine any more. At least they had gone beyond that, into a world of actual red for after dinner. They'd just drank enough to last a week.

Or at least six days. Yes, they'd been working hard on the house. Together. And working quite well – getting along better, despite it all. And yes, she'd had her first appointment in Lima, but what was that all about, truly? He didn't quite believe it. Emma Pillsbury seemed vague and evasive when he'd called her, yesterday, from the house at Westerville, and asked her- what was his wife doing, treating their son, Blaine, like he _is_ less important than Cooper _was?_

Straining not to drink his wine in one gulp, he listened to her talk about Blaine's nightmare the other night- which he had gotten up to remedy, not her. He listened to her talk about how she thought that Blaine was getting ideas from the kids in that group- that going wasn't a good idea.

"But, Pam, I-"

"But Blaine has no idea that- that- Cooper t-took his own life," His wife's expression was now quite panicked "Josh. How else would he have known about _pills_ , and- and the knife? How?"

"C'mon, Pam. Calm down."

"No, seriously, think about it. Please?"

Josh shrugged and said nothing, trying to express, with the disdain in his expression, how much contempt he had for this idea. Blaine was getting so much out of the Boys' Bereavement Group; he wasn't going to pull his son out, now.

"Josh?"

Again, he said nothing. Deliberately returning her silences, as a punishment. He felt a surge of anger, that she should try and ruin it all. Again. Just as the dust was settling, just when they thought they could be okay without Cooper in their lives.

Setting down his glass, he gazed at the mad scribbles of rain on the dining-room window. How was he going to make this house waterproof? Or windproof?

"Josh, _talk_ to me."

"Why? When you're blathering nonsense and gossiping about those boys?"

He was trying to restrain himself- Pam hated being shouted at, she'd fracture into tears if he really raised his voice. The legacy of her domineering father. But then she'd gone and married a brusque man, himself, not entirely unlike her father. Her fault then? Or maybe it was no one's fault, just the repeating patterns of families. Josh was no different, he was not immune to the tedious reiterations of genes or environments- right this minute, he wanted a proper drink. He wanted a big glass of proper whisky like his failure of a sweaty, swearing old man who beat the wits out of Josh's mother at least once a month. And then fell in the river and drowned. _Good. There's all the drink you'll need, you old bastard._

"What is this crap? Pam?"

"How else did our son learn about how- h-how Cooper did it?"

"You don't know that they talk about stuff like that, there. She has them drawing _pictures_."

"A rope, a pill bottle, and his parents aren't home? It has to be, Josh, what else could it be? Those boys are damaged. They _won't_ be corrupting my son."

Was she on the verge of tears again? Something in Josh wanted her to cry, the way he had nearly cried, when Blaine said what he said.

His wife had it easy.

Josh resisted the urge to terrify her with the truth. Instead he laid a big hand on his wife's small one, her tiny, pretty, ineffectual hands that couldn't tie a knot to save her life; but yet, these were the small white hands that he'd loved, once. Could he ever love her properly again? Love her doubtlessly and purely, untroubled by resentment, or a desire for revenge?

"Pam, maybe your dad told him? You know what he's like after a couple of drinks. Or your mom. My brother. Anyone could have said something about suicide, and he overheard it, then imagined the rest. Think how horrible it must be. The concept. To a child. Ropes. Pills. Death. It'd lodge in the memory. That's why he's dreaming of it."

"But I don't believe anyone _did_ tell him, or said anything he might have overheard. Only my family knew exactly how Cooper tried, and then woke up. And I asked them."

"You _what?_ "

Silence.

"You asked your mom and dad?"

Another pause.

"Jesus Christ. Pam? You've been ringing people up, telling them all this, all our private stuff? How is that going to help?"

His wife sipped from her wine, and shook her head, her lips thinned and whitened by suppressed tension.

Josh stared intently at the wine in his glass. Feeling a draining sense of futility: as if he were sitting in a bath and the water was glugging away down the plughole, making him colder, and heavier- transported to a nastier planet. They were shivering in this house; they were drowning in tasks and challenges, and maybe it was helpless.

No. He had to keep halfway positive. For Blaine.

Tomorrow, he'd try again.

"Josh, there are lots of stories that all of them tell. Remember when C-Cooper learned from Niles at school that one time that Santa Clause wasn't real? He came home one day, running with anticipation of a conspiracy. The excitement. Do you remember how he tried to find out for himself?"

Josh sat back and rubbed his eyes with a dusty hand. He listened to the house. Blaine was in his room, playing the old, dusty piano. He could just about hear the distant notes of his mother's old instrument, dueting with the crinkle of rain on the dining-room window. His son was lost in a musical world, and he couldn't blame him- it beat reality.

And the reality was, Josh _did_ remember the time when Cooper was six and he came home from primary school one day, when he snuck into the master closet, only to find the same wrapping paper that 'Santa' used on Christmas. He remembered when their son had confronted them about it boldly, catching them in the lie. He remembered when he still asked for presents the next year. Of _course_ he remembered.

He gazed at the smears of the rain. The harshness of outdoors beckoned, and appealed. Something in him wanted to be out there in the wind and the cold, scrambling the cruel ridges of the storm, getting battered by the winds up by the old windmill. But he was in here, waiting for his wife to talk. She was finishing her wine, the last of the bottle. Would they open another? He always relied on her to police his drinking. And yes, he wanted another bottle, already, at five p.m.

"Josh, please. Just think about it. I don't think we should let him talk to those boys anymore. I don't want to lose our second son, _please_."

"Pam. No seven year old is just going to waltz off the deep end and decide he wants to end it all."

"There have been kids before!"

"No."

"But-"

"Pam, even if there was some boy who told him how you could off yourself, it doesn't mean that he will do it. Blaine is a sensible boy. And if you bar him from this group thing, I don't think that it'll go over well at all."

The rain seemed to pause. His wife gazed at him.

He went on, "Even if you think these kids are troubled, or damaged, don't you know that Blaine is just the same?"

A silence ensued. He barked with laughter.

"Unless you're saying that Blaine is just as sad as Cooper is? Huh? Where does that put _us-_ as...as parents, then?"

It was a joke. He was making an attempt at humor.

But with a cringing dizziness, he realized that he'd touched on a truth. Pam wasn't laughing; or frowning; she was just staring at him, as the Midwestern summer rain returned, as the rain ate deeper and deeper into the cement and mortar of this _stupid_ house.

"Oh, fuck this! Pam, I don't understand why you're so worked up. Get-a-fucking-grip. Cooper is dead, Blaine is a confused and unhappy little boy. That's all. He just needs his parents to be sane."

"..."

"What?"

"I …"

 _"What?"_

"It's …" She trailed off into silence.

He felt like screaming. _What. The. Hell. Is. It?_ His anger was overtaking him. Barely keeping control, he said, as evenly as possible, "What is it, Pam? What's the big mystery?"

"I – I don't know. The dreams, though, what about the dreams?"

"They're just damn DREAMS!" He sank his head into his hands. Over-dramatically, yet sincerely.

For ten seconds neither of them spoke, then Pam stood up, and took the empty wine bottle into the kitchen. Josh watched her as she went; the jeans were hanging off her hips. There was a time when they would have solved this tension by just going to bed. And he still _wanted_ her; he still _loved_ her, even when he resented her.

What would happen, if they fought worse? But if he got rough with her now, and if his latent anger surfaced: where would it end? Pam came back from the kitchen. Not holding another wine bottle. His mood sank even further, if that was possible. Could he open one later without her looking at him? He had to stop drinking so much. Blaine needed his dad relatively sober and sensible. Someone had to be on the watch.

But it was so hard maintaining the _lies_. And this place wasn't helping as he'd hoped. The cold, grey grisliness of November was ghastly enough, and this was just late autumn. What would real winter be like? Maybe the severity and brutality would help: they would have to pull together.

Or maybe it would end them.

She was hovering in the room, not sitting down.

"Pam, is there something you're not telling me? You've been like this for a while – since that appointment with Ms. Pillsbury, maybe. If not before. What's happened?"

His wife regarded him and said, as ever,

"It's nothing."

"Pam!"

"I'm sorry I mentioned it. I have to get Blaine's uniforms ready, I haven't even unpacked them, they only arrived this morning and-" he reached for her hand and held it, she went on, "He starts at the new school in a few days."

He kissed her hand, not knowing what else to do. But Pam pulled away with a silent, apologetic smile, and she turned and exited the dining room, through the unpainted door, scuffing in her three layers of socks on the cold stone floor. Josh watched her go. Sighing urgently.

Blaine was coping as well as he could.

It was ridiculous. If only the problem was just mourning their dead son. A _ghost_.

And because of that, because of Cooper's death, he felt ghosts would be easier- because ghosts didn't exist.

Josh stood, and decided to busy himself with hard manual labour, to purge the sadness, and the anger. The endorphins might help his mood. Pacing through the kitchen he opened the clean door at the back, by the sinks and mops, that led out the side door of the house and into the shed out back.

All kinds of crap was stored here, in this barnlike space: stacks of decrepit furniture, waiting to be sawed into kindling, stuff that Josh and Pam, upon buying their new house in the suburbs, had decided too old for their model garage. Pans and bottles were heaped in piles- like whole villages of refugees had stayed, then fled; there were heaps of plastic sacks and reels of blue nylon twine and pyramids of ancient porcelain flagons, most of them cracked. His grandmother had been a hoarder, a proper Philippian islander- a survivalist before her time, when it was necessary not fashionable, grabbing anything that drifted on to the beach. _Hey, look, this could be useful. Keep that._

Selecting a few logs for chopping, Josh slipped on his plastic goggles, flexed his fingers into moist old gloves, and kick-started the electric saw. For two hours he buzzed and sawed, in the dim thirty-watt light of the lumber-room bulb. The full  
moon rose over the suburb of Westerville as the clouds cleared.

Leo the dog eventually nosed the door open and loped into the middle of the scattered, fragrant sawdust, and sat there, tail wagging slowly, and gazing at the puffs of yellow wood-dust spitting from the logs.

"All right, boy?"

The dog looked sad. He'd looked sad ever since the Andersons had started to truly acknowledge their problems; that they weren't the picture perfect family their Christmas cards proved them out to be.

Yet, the dog was often morose, as now: his muzzle posed between his paws.

Josh set down the saw; he had three plastic tubs full of chopped logs. He stripped off the sweaty plastic goggles and tickled Leonardo DiCaprio (Jr.) behind the ear, with his thickly gloved fingers.

"What is it, old pal? It's just some old wood?"

The dog whimpered.

"Missing 'Coop?"

Leo yawned anxiously. And he laid his muzzle between his sphinx-like paws once again. Josh felt a flux of sympathy. Cooper had _loved_ this dog. He'd spent endless happy hours walking woodlands around Westerville with Leo.

But this mood-switch was perplexing.

On reflection, Josh realized the dog had been acting very strangely ever since Cooper died. Sometimes hiding in corners of the house, as if he was scared; at other times refusing to come in. And he acted differently around Pam. He'd been acting differently around Pam for a long time.

Could the dog have witnessed what happened that night in Cooper's room? Was Leo there, upstairs, when it happened? Could a dog remember or comprehend a human event like that?

Josh's breath was misting in the damp raw air. The lumber-room was bitterly cold, now that he'd stopped fighting the logs with the saw. So cold that the windows were actually icing up.

Just like that day Cooper was born- the coldest day of the year.

He stared at the thin crackles of rime.

And then, the grief hit Josh, like a blow to the back of his knees: as it often did. Like a hard football tackle. Making him crumple, and lean to the dusty stacks of planks for support.

Cooper, his little-league slugger. Lying there in the hospital emergency with the tube in his mouth, charcoal pumping through it, opening his regretful eyes, once, to say goodbye. As if to say sorry. A teenager.

 _Cooper, his Cooper._ Cooper. His darling first-born.

He'd loved him, too, loved him just as much as Pam. Yet somehow his grief was deemed as lesser?

Somehow the mother's grief was seen as more important: _she_ was the one allowed to crack up, _she_ was the one given permission to cry, _she_ was the one allowed to agonize for months about her favorite. OK, he'd been distant, too, at times, but he'd kept living through the agony and almost _none_ of it was his fault. This was the enraging thing. She was far more to blame, infinitely more. He wanted to hurt his wife for what happened. Punish her. Hurt her badly.

 _Why not?_ His son was _dead_.

Josh plucked a hammer from a shelf. It was a claw hammer. Vicious and slightly rusted. Its fangs stained brown, as if there was already old blood on the steel. It was heavy, but it had a satisfying weight, just the right weight. It asked to be swung, hard, downwards, cracking something open.

Finally. An explosion of redness. Like whacking a melon, soft pulp flying everywhere. Would the steel claws stick?

The rain had stopped and the sea was grey beyond the windows. Josh stared at the stained bare floorboards, despairing. No, he couldn't.

He longed for another drink.

* * *

 **I personally cried. This was really hard to write for me. I'm not a father, I've never had children, but I took into consideration society's norms and figured that Josh wouldn't have had time to really grieve on his own, what with the way I'm characterizing Pam.**

 **On a second note, I want to hear your input on who you want this story to focus on the most- it's going to be very long, and I'm trying to balance the Andersons', the Smythes', and the Hummels' personal grievances the best I can, but I really enjoy writing about Blaine and Sebastian, and not so much Kurt. Blangsters gonna blangst, and all that. Even though this is supposed to be a Kid!Klaine friendship story, Sebastian's whole twin thing is also present. I don't think I'll have him be friends with Kurt or Blaine, but he'll be there in the group with lots of snarky comments. But then again, this all depends on what you all think.**

 **Thank you!**

 **~AforAllyyyyyyx**


	5. Chapter 5

Sebastian looked up at his father as Christopher entered the bedroom, the one that used to be his twin, Barry's. Sebastian hadn't slept in his own ever since Barry had passed away. Christopher took the room in, his face grim. Simone, before she left, had taken the liberty to decorate both of the twins' rooms, each equally different so that they had separate personalities. When the divorce occurred, Sebastian and Barry were five, and Christopher was left alone with two sons and a big house with too many rooms. They were okay, though. But then, two years later, one of them died.

Sebastian looked very sad. It was unusual. Christopher observed in the seven years of his sons' lives that it was always Barry who would tear up, and Sebastian, who would glare at the floor. Sebastian would be the one to brood, and throw tantrums. Unsettled, Christopher let his eyes land on the bookshelf next to the bed with his son on it.

Christopher had made this room a little more homely for him; as soon as Sebastian declared he wanted to sleep in Barry's, some of his things had made the trip down the hall. But Sebastian still had Barry's comic books on a shelf. He had pictures of dinosaurs on the wall, but his radio was playing kids pop: _The Wanted_. There was a wicker basket full of toys, but he hadn't touched them much.

Sebastian's sad eyes were unbearable.

"Son," Christopher said, tentatively. 'Tell me what happened today at school."

Silence.

Christopher tried again, expecting his son to be unimpressed by his attempt- as he was, "Did you have a good day? Your first day? Tell me about your teachers."

More silence, and more of _The Wanted_. Sebastian closed his eyes, and Christopher waited and waited. He could sense his son was going to say something. And then, Sebastian leaned forward slowly, and said, in a very tiny voice, "No one wanted to play with me, Daddy."

Christopher's heart broke open. "Oh. I see."

"I kept asking them, but no one would play with me."

The pain inside Christopher was burning, but he didn't know how to handle it. He didn't know how to respond. Sebastian was always good at finding kids he could boss around and play with. When Sebastian was at his old school, he attended it up until Barry's sudden death. Sebastian was the leader of a pack of popular boys, who followed his word, even if his son's words were blunt, and sometimes even mean. It had always been Barry who experienced the most trouble in finding friends; Barry neither wanted to lead or be a follower. And sometimes, he would disappear into the background, or be the odd one out. Sometimes, his comic books and his brother were his only friends.

"It's OK, slugger, it's just your first day, that can happen."

Christopher sat down next to Sebastian, patting his son's back. He hoped it would be some comfort to one very dejected kid. That same dejected kid was supposed to be ready to go to Bereavement Group that night; but instead of being at that strip mall in Lima, it was going to be at Jennifer Duval's house- as a sort of "relaxing" party before the Thanksgiving Break. Christopher didn't know how the word "relaxing" got put into the description.

His son was still speaking.

"So I played with Sebastian."

Christopher hand stopped on Sebastian's shoulder as his heart raced.

"Sebastian?" His voice was strained. Not again. Not before they had to-

"He played with me, like we always play."

"OK."

 _What do I do?_ Christopher's thoughts were scattered. _Get angry? Shout? Explain that Sebastian is alive, Barry dead, and that he is Sebastian? That Sebastian can't play with himself because he is, in fact, Sebastian? That he is not his dead brother?_ Christopher thought faintly that he he didn't even know himself.

"But then, when I was playing with Bash…"

"Yes?"

"Everyone laughed at me, Daddy. It was...It made me cry, they were all laughing."

"Because you were really alone?" Christopher had said before he could have stopped himself.

"No! Sebastian was there! He was there! He's here! He's here!'

"Son, he's not here, he's-"

"He's what?"

"Sebastian, your brother- he- he-"

"Just say it, Daddy, just say it, I know he's dead, you told me he's dead."

"Slugger-"

"You keep saying he's dead but he comes back to play with me, he was here, he was at school, he plays with me, he is my _brother_ , it doesn't matter if he's dead, he's still here, still here, I'm here, we are here – why do you keep saying we're dead, when we're not _we're not_ _WE'RE NOT!"_

Sebastian's howling speech ended in angry, noisy tears. He flung himself away from Christopher and he crawled to the end of the bed and he buried his hot, flushed face in the pillow and– Christopher was helpless. Christopher sat there, pathetic- the World's Worst Father. _What have I done to my son? What am I still doing? What damage am I about to inflict?_ Christopher was in anguish.

 _Should I have ignored his confusion in the first place?_ If Christopher had never entertained any suspicion, if he had insisted his living son was Sebastian, he might have stayed Sebastian. But now, he had to live with that. He had to do that.

Bad father. Evil father.

Christopher waited the few minutes for Sebastian's anger to subside. The radio played more tinny pop music: "Glad You Came" by _The Wanted_. Then, Britney Spears.

At last, Christopher laid a large hand on Sebastian's ankle. "Son."

Sebastian turned. Red-eyed, but calmer. "Yes."

"Sebastian?"

He did not flinch at the name. Christopher was sure then he was Sebastian. His Barry was dead.

"Sebastian, I'm just going into the kitchen for a second to get a hot drink. Do you want something? Something to drink?"

Sebastian eyed Christopher, blank-faced. "Apple juice."

"OK. You go- you go put on your nice clothes."

Sebastian seemed to accept that as a demand. Troubled, he wandered over to the closet, standing before it, and as he did, Christopher left.

Sebastian wanted to wear Barry's clothes.

* * *

 **The Andersons**

* * *

Josh sat in the bedroom watching Pam get ready for supper at the Duvals'. There was a time when this would have been a sensuous interlude: his wife would half-turn, and ask him to zip the back of her dress. Josh would oblige, sowing delicate kisses on the whiteness of her neck; then he would watch her dab perfume here and there…

But now, he had to resist the urge to walk out, or worse. How long could he do this? Their last argument had been left off at some weird point. Pam was convinced that their son, Blaine, was to be pulled out of the support group, but yet, hypocritical Pam, was invited to Jennifer Duval's home for dinner. For that nice sit down with all of the other support group families. And Josh and Blaine were to come with her.

His wife slipped on her shoes, nearly ready. Josh regarded the fine muscles of her shoulders, revealed by her backless dress, as she curved to smooth her tights. The softness of the skin above her spine; the subtle beauty, glinting. He still desired her.

But it was all meaningless now.

"Can you go and get Blaine?"

Pam was asking him, directly.

"Josh? Hello? Blaine. We need Blaine ready. Now. Can you go and get him please?"

Her instructions were clipped, and careful. Much like everything she said, now. It had the troubling subtext: _We know we don't want to stay together, but we have to try. Or pretend._

"Yes, OK."

He walked towards Blaine's room. Josh knocked and opened the door.

His little boy was dressed, handsomely, in a button-up shirt, and an untied bow-tie around his neck. Just standing there. In the middle of the room, unspeaking, and alone. Why was he doing that? Increasingly, his son's behavior unnerved him: again he felt a tingling panic. Time was running out. He had to rescue him from this madness.

But he didn't know how.

Blaine finally asked, his speech not completely correct, "Will there be the other kids there, Dada?"

"I don't know," Josh lied intentionally. "Think Jennifer Duval has just the one."

"Yeah, Nick. But Kurt, will he be there?"

"-Duval. You like playing with that kid, don't you? And Jeff Sterling? His grandma, she knew everything about everything-"

"No she didn't, Dada, no one knows everything about everything, except maybe God and I don't know if HE is clever enough to know all that?"

Josh gazed at his son, his train of thought changing directions. This was new, this God stuff. Where did it come from? The primary school, Dalton Academy, didn't seem especially hymnal; maybe he had new friends who were religious. Blaine had started at that school and had been going there for about three days, which was just as long as Pam and Josh had been giving each other the silent treatment for.

Josh shook his head. He was getting too distracted.

"How about that." He let the silence drag unintentionally. "So Kurt, you said? I don't know his parents. If he's there, maybe you can point me in their direction. He's one of your new friends?"

"Mmhm," nodded Blaine, "But Dada, his mom passed away. I've never talked to his daddy, though."

"Oh." Josh internally cringed. He should really be more tactful.

As if to keep the conversation going, (as if Blaine picked up on the fact that Josh had nothing to say, and was about to tie his bow-tie without any further emotional connection) Blaine lunged forward, "But I know there's a man who lost his son, too, Dada."

"Oh?" Josh repeated, this time with more question in his voice. He finished off Blaine's bow-tie and stood back up. He had been kneeling.

Blaine peered up at him from innocent and long eyelashes. "Uh huh. Barry's dad. Sebastian, I mean. I don't get it."

Josh only smiled at his son as they left the house and got in the car.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Andersons (continued)**

The brief car journey to the Duvals' big bright house was silent: each member of the family staring out of a different window, at a different darkness.

Josh had wondered if he should have put his foot down and canceled this social engagement, given the ongoing horrors of everything. But Pam had insisted they had to aim for normality.

Even though they were struggling, they had to pretend they were doing okay– as if that might, magically, make things okay.

So here they were, in an array of nice clothes, stepping inside the big angular house, and there in the enormous kitchen, doyenne of her expensive copper pans, was Jennifer Duval. Laughing by the island, another mom standing over trays of canapés. Two other couples were sipping Aperol spritzers from elegant glasses by the kitchen table, and everywhere Josh inhaled the smell of decent cooking: something he missed at home, with their fighting and Pam's simple abilities to make Blaine frozen vegetables and pasta. Josh barely touched the stove anymore, for family dinners without Cooper felt insignificant and like they were missing him. They weren't missing him, no. Not after the way he died.

"Just a bit of roast pork, I'm afraid," Jennifer Duval said, apologetically, as she took their coats. "Not quite up to Michelin tonight."

They stepped into the open-plan living room, with its expansive windows; flutes of something bubbly were dispersed. Pam stood beside him, nodding gracefully. The Duval home was large, larger than the Andersons' modern-suburban-upper-middle-class-number. Josh knew Jennifer Duval's husband had been an air force pilot, but he didn't know how that translated into such a large home.

"Here," said Josh, losing his train of thought, "I've actually got some nice wine- Trentodoc by Ferrari, proper Italian champagne, none of that prosecco rubbish."

"How would you know, Josh? You haven't had a drink in ten years."

Surprisingly, it was Jennifer Duval who responded, her bright blue eyes playful. Josh felt the corner of his mouth upturn into a smile- so Jennifer did remember their college days. Josh had been the lightest weight the world had ever known back at University of Michigan- skinny, the physics major- but he never expected Jennifer to remember that. It was by coincidence they lived in the same area, but never crossed paths much, save for parties, at school.

"I can tell by the bubbles. I am still allowed bubbles." The banter was returned by Josh.

Everyone joked in a faintly effortful way: Jennifer called Emma Pillsbury over to make elegant introductions between the couples, or singles, who were there alone.

Heather Sterling, who Josh had met once before in passing at that Lima strip mall, with Pam, then her husband, David ("University of Michigan grad, too, eh?") despite never having met him before in his life. Then, Josh was reintroduced to Pillsbury's fiancé, William Schuester, who was there even though he was the principal at that damn school Blaine just started at; there were no other children besides Nick Duval and Jeff Sterling, yet.

Josh didn't care about the adults, he cared about his son.

Josh watched, even as the other adults doted, dutifully, on Blaine– for about three minutes of clear boredom– then returned to their glasses of sparkling Italian wine and grown-up conversation.

After that, Blaine stood there, waiting to be asked by Nick and Jeff to play. It didn't take long for those two kids to come running from God-knows-where, expensive toys in their hands. Blaine left shyly, and the boys didn't come back for quite some time. At least, until the rest of the supposed party arrived.

"Mr. Hummel, so glad you're here!" Pillsbury said gladly, walking quickly to get the newcomer a glass of wine. Josh regarded him with a resting smile, politely. The more that showed up, the more he got a little overwhelmed. But he could handle it. Pam seemed to be having fun, at least.

His wife was in her atmosphere. Growing up while attending suburban house parties must have been a predecessor to the housewife talk, the wine, the champagne, the gossip- it put a fire behind her eyes. It gave her purpose. That purpose, Josh observed, was easily robbed from her when Cooper died just- nine months ago. It was November.

The notion nearly crippled him as he was introduced to Burt Hummel, who also looked out of his element, a little worse for wear. He seemed a little underdressed, but Josh regarded him with respect once Burt set his shoulders back, grabbed a glass, and strode over to talk. Bravely. Something Josh was certain he may not have been able to do.

"Evening, my name is Burt, Burt Hummel," Burt said, nodding at Josh, who stood next to his wife and Jennifer Duval. "Lovely house," He added to Jennifer, who brightened immediately.

"Thank you very much. I've just redone the parlor room, in the summer, actually."

"Oh, did the renovation go smoothly?" Pam barely met Burt's eyes as she regarded Jennifer.

"Yes, it was-"

Josh zoned out of their conversation. "Hey, why don't we go grab a beer?" He said simply, eyeing his wife in view of Burt. He nodded with relief as the man said yes.

"Dada!" Josh was beginning to lead Burt back into the kitchen when Blaine crashed into him, wrapping his tiny arms around Josh's legs happily, "We wanna go play tag outside. May we please?"

Josh exchanged a glance with Burt, "I don't see why you can't. Blaine, meet Mr. Hummel. And his son, Kurt, was it?"

A second little boy's eyes lit up at the sight of his son. "Blaine!"

"Hi, Kurt."

"I'm sorry, do you two know each other?" Josh was slightly confused.

In response, Blaine stared at Josh with exaggerated amounts of exasperation on his face. _"Yes,_ Dada. I asked you if Kurt was going to be at the party."

"Oh." A pause.

"We go to the same school!"

"Do you?"

"Yeah! Me and Kurt have the same recess," little Blaine was bouncing up and down.

"Kurt and I," Eight year old Kurt corrected, an odd victorious look on his face. In retaliation, Blaine glared playfully at Kurt, and then at the floor.

Decidedly, Blaine saw Nick and Jeff over by the french doors. "Does Kurt wanna come play with us?" Instead of looking at Kurt for permission, he glanced up at Burt, who until then had been observing the conversation.

"What? Oh. Kurt? Do you want to go play with them?" Burt asked.

"Yes."

"Okay. You be good, alright?" Burt nodded firmly, leaning down to kiss his son on the top of his head.

Josh felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He never did that with Blaine- it was always Pam who was the tactile one. But it was more like Pam was tactile at parties; even today, Pam was giving away his son's kisses, "Greet Mrs. Sterling, honey. Give her a kiss".

Josh never really knew how to feel about that, even when Cooper had been little. It was a customary thing, telling a toddler or a young child to kiss someone hello or goodbye. Selling his child's kisses just wasn't his thing.

Josh wanted, fiercely, to save Blaine from all this, and take him away, take him to live in New York. Or Chicago, San Francisco- just the two of them. A nice little apartment in the lower east side, where they belonged. Where his mother had been happy. Where he'd been happy with his brother as boys. Where he could be happy with his little boy.

He grew distracted. Josh and Burt each grabbed a beer and headed to the back porch, where they could sit in Jennifer Duval's nice wicker chairs and watch the four kids play. They left the party inside to the housewives, Pillsbury, and William Schuester, who seemed like an honorary one the way he was talking about Jennifer's recently redone parlor.

But there was another father and son who were there, too.

Christopher Smythe showed up a little late, but cleaned up properly. Josh shook a firm hand in the middle of the sitting room, and like the adults had with Blaine, participated in doting on Bartholomew, who liked to be called Barry, Christopher's son. Josh didn't know the full story with that kid- but from what he saw with Schuester, Pillsbury, and Heather and David Sterling and even his own wife, Pam's nervous glances, it wasn't good.

Back inside, Josh continued his conversation with Burt Hummel, who was proving himself to be a good guy to hang around with. Burt liked football, college football, baseball, and other things the men distracted themselves with as the time went on. Burt owned an auto mechanical business, and Josh toyed with that idea for a little while, discussing how they liked fixing up cars.

Just a bit later, Josh listened and watched as the Smythe boy, Barry, asked his father, Christopher, in the hall, if he could go upstairs, and watch _The_ _Backyardigans_ on one of the Duval's screens. Josh and Burt exchanged a glance with each other- the boy seemed lonely, and Josh shared his sentiment. But at least, he had Burt for company.

"Daddy, I can read my comic book upstairs, or..."

"But-"

"Daddy. Please. I'll be quiet?"

Josh nodded once at Burt, and Burt stayed put as Josh got up and went to go find his son. The boys were all back inside now, and were spread out in the basement with a train set. However, Kurt and Blaine were dressing miniature dolls and playing with old action figures of Star Wars that somehow fit inside the trains, but were clearly from another set or probably belonged to a sibling or something. Josh forgot to ask Burt if he had just the one kid that went to this support group.

As he entered the room, the boys didn't stop to look at him, too engrossed in their game to be bothered. Josh watched them fondly for a moment, as Blaine was making the action figures talk in different voices. A pang of sorrow hit him as he realized that Cooper once did the same thing, for his goals were set on being an actor since before he could make his voice sound differently. There was even the Iron Man toy that Josh had dug out of the attic for Blaine to play with. He hadn't noticed that he had brought it to the party.

"Hey boys," Josh announced himself, settling on the floor after putting his beer bottle on the counter that adjourned the finished basement; Jennifer Duval, apparently, had a minibar downstairs as well as a projector screen, cases upon cases of VHS, and plenty of toys. "Wha'cha working on?"

"We're playing _superpowers!"_ Blaine said, "Yah!" he made Iron Man fly.

In a higher-pitched voice than the one Kurt already had, Kurt put his doll, a red-haired mermaid, down on the train tracks, where he declared, "I have to get back to the sea! Save me!"

"I will!"

Josh watched his son's concentrated eyes as he flew Iron Man down to save the mermaid. The wooden blocks that Blaine and Kurt had set up were different from the half that Nick and Jeff had, who seemed content building a large, complicated loop.

"Blaine?" Josh asked, carefully.

"Yes, Dada?" Blaine broke character, pausing with Iron Man in midair.

"There's another boy upstairs. Do you want to ask him to play with you?"

"Um," Blaine looked back at Kurt, who didn't seem like he cared. He shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, but we're kind of doing something right now."

"I'm sure you can find room for him in your game," Josh didn't see why it was such a big problem.

"Um, OK," It took a moment for Blaine to register that this was something Josh really wanted. "Do you want Kurt to come, too? You know, when I ask?"

"I don't see why not," shrugged Josh.

The two boys quickly got up.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Smythes**

* * *

Christopher had no desire to keep Sebastian down here: where he would be bored, and possibly start acting up. And he could imagine the ways he might act up, if he wanted.

His son was haunted. And he knew why.

And so he just nodded, and turned, to explain to Emma Pillsbury, who had been an understanding woman at some point, who then talked to Jennifer as she returned from the kitchen. Jennifer was flushed from cooking, and distracted. She laughed and said: "Of course! Of course he can go upstairs. God, if he doesn't want to play, then he doesn't- of course I wish that Sebas-, I mean, um um um, Barry, um…"

Jennifer paused, clearly embarrassed. Christopher flushed faintly in the direction of Miss Pillsbury; Jennifer had only been told about the Sebastian-Barry thing the other day. Jennifer's mistake was entirely understandable. But awkward.

The other guests were, it seemed, aware of this. A puzzled silence descended on everyone, then David Sterling said: "It's OK, son. I love comic books. More than my wife, in fact."

Jennifer chuckled uncomfortably and the moment passed. Pleasantries were swapped. The upcoming wedding between Miss Pillsbury and William Schuester was discussed, then the weather. David asked Pam Anderson about property prices and the value of New Albany and holidays in Hawaii, and as the chatter drifted in its middle-class way, Christopher surged with unspoken resentment.

Christopher drank.

And drank. And brooded. He wondered if he was able to keep it together for just an evening anymore; he wanted to walk out as they sat down to langoustine, served with some of Jennifer's supposedly best mayonnaise and fresh bread.

The food was predictably delicious; his mood was worsening. He wanted to say it out loud: _my life is nothing, it is falling apart, my son is dead and my other son is mad._

He wanted to announce this, calmly. He wanted to watch everyone else turn and stare in horror.

Instead, Christopher added: "We need interest rates to stay low, of course."

"Oh, they will, another crash would kill the country off completely, there'd be lepers in the Country Club."

The wine came: plentifully. Christopher noticed that many were drinking too much, as well, almost as much as he was drinking.

"Oh yes just another."

Just another, just another, _just one more._

The main course was suckling pig– local– with excellent crackling, damson plum sauce, and a tremendously fashionable vegetable he could not identify, and then the conversation moved on to death, and ghosts.

Why the hell were they talking about this? At this time?

Christopher plowed his way through his tenth glass of wine. He sat back and slurped and wondered if his teeth were stained red by the wine, as Pam Anderson pronounced: "Chatwin is rather good on this, in his Australian book, he says our fear of ghosts is a fear of predators, of being prey."

Emma Pillsbury put down her fork, and came back: "I'm sure I read that you can mimic ghosts, or the effect of ghosts, by subjecting people to a subsonic growl– you cannot hear it, the same growl used by predators to terrify their prey.'

"Really?"

"Yes. They've tested it, on people, the subsonic noise cannot be registered by the ear but we hear it in our minds, that's the nameless dread people describe when they experience ghosts!"

 _Try being me,_ thought Christopher, _try being me and my son, about six months ago, if you want nameless dread._

He looked around the table. Pam Anderson suddenly looked anxious: slurping wine too fast. Jennifer Duval looked down at her neatly made-up plate, cutting into green beans silently. Josh Anderson was watching the kids' table, where five boys, seemingly worlds away, were having conversations of their own. David and Heather Sterling were the only ones who had less of a claim to the sensitive subject. Lesser, but it didn't mean that it didn't still matter to them. Christopher had to bite back a thought.

And they were silent, of course. From nowhere, from the past, from some dim, barely understood part of himself, Christopher felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for them, a sudden sense of fraternity, and mutuality. Whatever else divided him and the others- and it was so much, it was surely too much- they were all going through some sort of nightmare together.

His thoughts drifted to his ex-wife in Paris, for a moment. He had seen her at Barry's funeral, watching, glaring, as if to say it were _his_ fault. The pain in those blue eyes that he'd married on a whim. They were just as divided, and just as together as the adults sitting at Jennifer Duval's table.

But how was Barry's death only his fault? How could he harbor life-long-self-hate and not daydream about _her_ suffering, too? Simone, even as he daydreamed, wildly, about making her suffer for what she'd done, had walked out on him and the twins two years before that safe got unlocked.

Perhaps when you had a child together there was always a residual connection of love, even if it was later drowned. The love was still down there: like a sunken ship.

And when you shared the death of a child you were bonded for eternity, at least, that's what Miss Pillsbury had said to him at some point. But Simone didn't care for Sebastian, now, that he was the only one left. She hadn't cared for Barry when he was still alive…Christopher blinked a few times. He was drunk and confused and he couldn't find it within him to think much beyond that.

Josh Anderson started talking: "And that's probably why people get spooked in old houses, cellars, churches, these places have echoes and resonances, timbres of the air, thanks to the topography, and these air vibrations cause the same subsonic vibrations as predators growling."

"Almost too neat an explanation. For ghosts."

"Has everyone got enough wine?"

"This suckling pig really is excellent, you totally killed it, Jennifer."

"They say when people are mauled by cats, they go into a kind of quiescence, a kind of Zenlike state."

"How would they know, if these poor wretches have been consumed by tigers? Do they interview them in heaven?"

"David!" Heather playfully slapped her husband.

Christopher reclaimed his glass, full and heavy, and he drank half of it, in one deep slug.

"Does that disprove the existence of God, the fact it can be explained as a fear of predation, of death?" Schuester said, his eyes interested.

David intervened: "Well, I've always been of the opinion that we are meant to be believers. After all, children believe by nature – they are instinctively faithful. When my siblings and I were six, they truly believed, but now, they are atheists. It's rather sad."

"Kids also believe in Santa. And the Easter bunny," added Heather.

David Sterling ignored his wife, continuing his rant: "Therefore life is, perhaps, a kind of corrosion? The pure true believing soul of the child is rusted, over time, polluted by the years-"

"You haven't read enough Nietzsche, David, that's your problem."

"I thought you said his problem was internet pornography?" said Burt, and everyone laughed, and Heather made a deprecating joke about calories, but Christopher stared at David, wondering if he was, actually, quite profound. Yet, sometimes, somehow, right now, David's remarks made Christopher want to vehemently agree, and he wondered if David, the art dealer, knew the effect he was having. And then David said this:

"It's not so much my own death that is intolerable, it's the death of those around me. Because I love them. And part of me dies with them. Therefore all love, if you like, is a form of suicide."

Christopher stared. And drank. And listened. And Josh Anderson had an argument about rugby with Burt and Schuester, and Christopher wanted to shake David by the hand, to lean over and say, _Yes, that's so true, everyone else is wrong. Why are they ignoring you? Everything you say is absolutely right– the death of those we love is so much worse than our own death, and yes all love is a form of suicide, you destroy yourself, you surrender yourself, you kill something in yourself, willingly, if you really love._

"I'm going to get Sebastian," said Christopher. He was standing up. The kids had gone off to play nearly two hours ago.

The plates were cleared away; the others helped. By the time he returned to the dining table with Sebastian, the others carrying dishes for the dessert– brown bread ice cream with some salted caramel thing, his son Sebastian was there, by the big black windows that looked onto the backyard. It had started storming.

"He can have some ice cream?" said Jennifer. And Christopher touched Sebastian on the shoulder.

"Oh yes, son, ice cream, your favourite?"

Christopher watched. There was something amiss with his son.

Sebastian was staring at the darkened windows. The view of the moon on the grass, the rain outside that couldn't be heard, the silhouettes of firs and alders. But the uncurtained windows also, of course, reflected the light within the room: the  
table and chairs, the art on the walls, the adults and their drinks. And the little boy in the sweater with the checkered shirt underneath and skinny jeans, with his father by his side.

Christopher realized what was happening. Too late.

Sebastian screamed.

 _"Go away, go away, I hate you!"_

And he ran at the window and he charged into the glass with his little fists raised– and the glazing cracked and shattered with a terrifying crash; and then there was blood. So much blood. Too much blood.


	8. Chapter 8

Christopher could see the terror on Josh's face, on Jennifer's face, but their fears were nothing, nothing, compared to his own. Christopher has been here before.

Sebastian screamed again. He had pulled back from the shattered window; his scarlet, bloodied hands poised vertically in the air, like a surgeon waiting to be gloved.

Christopher approached his son, tentatively, trembling, as if he was approaching a feral animal- because Sebastian backed away as Christopher got closer. But as he retreated, Sebastian stared at his father. Alarmed. As if he was scared of himself.

Christopher could hear Pillsbury behind him, speaking, and Burt, the sensible one, calling an ambulance, _Yes, Number 8, Orange Grove, half a mile past- in the suburbs, yes, please right away, PLEASE._

"Barry-"

"Barry…"

His son said nothing. Rigid and red-handed, imploring, he continued to retreat. Christopher thought the quietness was almost as terrifying as the bleeding.

"Christ-"

"Barry-"

"Josh, call the fucking ambulance!"

"I have, I am, I-"

"Barry, son, Bear …"

"Get water, Heather, bandages- Heather!"

"Barry, it's OK, it's OK, stay still – let me-"

Sebastian was still backing away, his hands raised in the air. The blood ran down his arms, the sweater cut and the shirt underneath, too. His blood dripping on the polished wooden floor.

"Please, Barry?"

Behind Christopher, it was Josh's little boy, not Jennifer, not Heather, nor any other adult who ran in with the bowl of water and the tissues. It was little Blaine who ran in with the flannels. The other boys stood petrified, but Blaine acted, and Heather and David this time attempted to approach Sebastian. On their knees, Heather's arms beckoning- but he evaded them, sloping away, bleeding.

 _Has he severed an artery, or is it just deep scratches?_

Christopher was kneeling on something hard and sharp. Glass.

He stood – but Burt, who had handed off the phone to Jennifer as she shooed Jeff, Nick, and Kurt into the kitchen, ran past Christopher and grabbed Sebastian in the corner, and held him close to his chest.

Sebastian was too shocked to elude him. Burt yelled at Christopher, who was frozen as well, "Wash his hands, get the blood off, we have to see how bad this is."

"Josh-"

"The ambulance is coming. Ten minutes."

"Baby, baby, baby."

Now, Christopher was rocking Sebastian backwards and forwards in his own arms, saying _shhh, shhh, shhh,_ comforting him, as Burt leaned close and began to sponge and daub the blood from his fingers, with the cold flannels and little Blaine's bowl of water. Christopher couldn't see anything but the sponged blood, coiling in the bowled water like red smoke.

With a swoon of relief, he could see that he was not so badly cut; his son had lacerated his palms and knuckles, and ripped the skin in multiple places, but it did not look arterial, the wounds are not that deep.

But there was a lot of blood; lots of blooded tissues were piling up. Heather Sterling whisked them away like an attending nurse.

"Jesus," Josh and David were pacifying themselves as they stood, watching the scene. "Jesus."

Heather Sterling, now rational, replaced the tissues with baby wipes, ointment, and bandages. Pam had dragged Blaine out of the room to wait with the other boys.

"Hey," Christopher finally said, "Barry. Slugger?"

His son looked so vulnerably young there, in his father's embrace, in his dead brother's clothes, with that dark maroon stitched sweater. He looked so young, and so damaged. Christopher observed that his white socks and black Chuck Taylors were speckled with blood.

 _What can I do?_ Christopher thought despairingly. He knew that his son was unhappy, _I know he is unhappy,_ and he knew that he was too young to be this unhappy. _What was preying on his mind? What anguish and doubt?_ Christopher's grief battled his fears, which tussled with his guilt as Burt washed Sebastian's little fingers. Sebastian's. Not Barry's. It was too easy to imagine Barry's death all over again, but this time, Christopher could _see_ it. He could _see_ his son die in his arms, instead of his finding him already dead in Sebastian's as he raced up those stairs in that big old house, hearing the sound, hoping, swearing, _screaming_ \- praying the gunshot he heard hadn't happened. That the twins hadn't gotten to the safe. That they hadn't been curious enough to find the code to get into it, or curious enough to pull the trigger. As Christopher squeezed the water and Burt washed the worst of the bleeding, he shook.

Then, Christopher said, quietly, "Barry. What happened just now?"

Of course, he knew what happened. Or, he could very well guess what happened. Sebastian looked in the window and he saw himself, but he saw the image of his dead brother. The identity confusion was sending him into ever darker places.

Lying on his father's lap, Sebastian shook his head and hugged his dad closer, Christopher was stroking his hair, gently, caressingly; Sebastian looked at Burt above him and back to Christopher, but spoke:

"Nothing."

Christopher daubed at the bloodstains himself. They were almost gone now; it's his own fingers that were trembling.

"Bear, why did you break the window?"

Burt glanced at Christopher. "We don't need to ask that, not here, not yet."

Christopher ignored the man. _What does he know?_ He wasn't there, in Christopher's own room that evening. _He had never been through this before, he's not been to that place of particular terror, hearing a shout, and discovering that your son is dead._

"Sweetheart, what was wrong, with the window? Was it like a mirror?"

Sebastian took a deep breath, and he hugged his father one more time, then he sat up and let him wipe the last of the blood from his knuckles.

 _He might need stitches, he will definitely need plenty of plasters and bandages._

But most of all, Sebastian needed love, calm and peace, and an end to all this scariness– and Christopher didn't know how they were going to find that.

Jennifer was back from the kitchen and on her hands and knees, brushing the chunks and angles of window glass into a dustpan; Christopher winced, guiltily.

"I'm so sorry, Jennifer."

"Please…" Jennifer Duval shook her head, and gave Christopher a smile of very serious pity, which made him feel worse.

Christopher turned back to his son. He wanted to know.

"Barry?"

Abruptly, he opened his eyes very wide and stared at the broken window, its black jagged void, surrounded with fangs of glazing; then, he turned to his dad and spoke, his voice quivering:

"It was Sebastian, he was _here_ , he was in the window, Daddy. I saw him, but it wasn't like last time, not like then, that time he was saying things, saying bad things, it was scary Daddy, but I- I- I-"

"OK," said Christopher. "Bash, slow down."

Bash?

That's what he used to call Sebastian. He prayed immediately for not another outburst, and thankfully, Sebastian was in shock, so it didn't come.

"No." Sebastian shook his head and gazed at Burt. "I want to tell now. Daddy?"

He breathed in and out for a few seconds, and then he said, "Sebastian was in the window upstairs too and I couldn't stop him, every time I looked he was there, every time, and he's dead and he's in the mirror at home, and now he was in here and he starts saying things, Daddy, bad things, horrible things. This was different, Daddy, and it makes me frightened. I'm so frightened of him, make him go away now, please, make him go away, he is in my room and he is in the school and now he's everywhere."

"OK, OK…" Christopher soothed his son, stroking his head. "OK."

Heather appeared in the doorway again: abashed, and pallid: "The ambulance is here."

Sebastian probably didn't need the ambulance any more; Christopher assuredly didn't need some siren-wailing, life-saving dash to Westerville General; nevertheless he carried Sebastian to the drive and clambered into the ambulance. It was there that Burt and Jennifer and the Sterlings and Miss Pillsbury and William Schuester made their mumbled and heartfelt goodbyes; and then they were the tiny family driving through the darkened roads of Ohio, sitting in the back of the ambulance with a silent paramedic.

Sebastian lay on the stretcher, his hands lightly bandaged. He was inert and sad now. Passive. Expressionless. The ambulance sped. Christopher didn't know what to say.

In the Emergency Room, at the large Westerville hospital, they patch up Sebastian's fingers with several delicate stitches, and ointments, and soothing creams, and proper bandages, and lots of nursing compassion offered by females, and throughout it all, Christopher stared at nothing.

Then, the ambulance drivers took them back to their own house as a favour, so Christopher didn't have to pay for a taxi.

Because he was, of course, over the drink-drive limit. He only had to drive half a mile from the Duvals' to the supper party, so he didn't bother staying sober. Now, it seemed awful. The shame of it mixed with the shame of everything else. He was a shameful father. Terrible father. The worst parent of all. He lost one son to his own gun, an accident, and somehow, he was losing the other.

 _I deserve all this._

Christopher put Sebastian to bed, then padded down to one of the guest rooms in the same hallway. But as he put his face to the pillow, he got an overpowering sense of remorse, and guilt, like there was a dark silt in his mind, churned up by the night's events.

 _What did he mean? Sebastian was still there? But- Barry died. He did._


End file.
